


You've Got My Heart In A Headlock

by zade



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Breathplay, Choking, Dry Humping, Explicit Consent, Hanging, Insecurity, Kink Research, Kink Shame, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nightmares, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safewords, Scars, Sex Dreams, and then, but they aren't used, murphamyweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, he decides.  He needs to end this.</p>
<p>He marches into the Ark wreckage, armed with knowledge and a dick that was quickly turning into a nervous half-chub.  He will find Murphy, and then he will make his mouth form words that aren’t “chokey-sex.”</p>
<p>Written for day 5 of Murphamy week: scars or nightmares</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got My Heart In A Headlock

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 5 of Murphamy week: scars or nightmares 
> 
> Holy shit does this need warnings. Okay so first off this angsty angst with a side of nasty porn.
> 
> Warnings: Nightmares that contain hanging and death and inappropriate boners, choking (dub-conly), choking/breathplay (very consensually), a single comment implying incest that did not happen, Murphy with body insecurity, Bellamy with an inability to talk about important things, some misunderstandings and then a brief discussion of consent before the fucking happens.
> 
> This also has Dealing With Your Trauma With Kink, which is fine, and works for these characters in this piece of fiction, but is not always a great idea IRL so keep that in mind <3
> 
> The dialogue in Bellamy's dreams are from the show, the title is from a song, beta'd by the lovely hateboners i'm going to bed

It starts with a dream. He’s on the Ark, walking towards his room, but when he gets there it’s the dropship. Murphy is there, and they are facing off like they were right before Murphy tried to hang him. They are face to face to face and there are stars on the ceiling and the sound of a waterfall and the wind whipping Murphy’s hair around like a tornado.

Bellamy’s throat is raw and he is afraid that he will die. It is self defense in a brutal, indefensible way. He is sick with how much he wants to cause hurt. His hands are made of ash.

Murphy says, “Bellamy, don’t do this. Don’t…” like he did, just like he did, and Bellamy pulls, lifting him off the ground by the taut rope around his neck. He tugs, tugs until Murphy’s feet are off the ground, watches as he kicks and jerks, face turning red and Bellamy is filled with a rush of shameful fierce joy. Murphy whimpers, “please,” breathy, barely there.

Bellamy wakes up, shaking and angry and afraid. A dream. A very bad dream. He wonders when he will wake up, not in a cold sweat, when he will finish punishing Murphy, or himself.

Kane, apparently, feels the same.

It wouldn’t be a punishment if Murphy wasn’t there, too. For all that he lacks in many, many other skills, Bellamy will concede that Kane is great at punishment. Despite Bellamy trying his hardest to avoid him, he had, of course, run into Murphy and they had, of course, fought. So Kane had assigned them both to clean the insides of the entire Ark, and had no privileges until it was done.

It would be bad enough even without Murphy, but Murphy keeps up a constant stream of insults and mockery and unflattering observations about Bellamy, his hair, and his personality. The part that actually hurts Bellamy, is that he was beginning to genuinely like Murphy. They had been getting along well after the whole Finn incident, and then suddenly Murphy was back to the giant pain that he had been back at the dropship.

Which is fine. Bellamy is a grown up and Murphy is a man child, and despite the fact that Murphy goaded Bellamy into a fight yesterday, Bellamy tells himself he’s not going to be goaded again.

It takes about two hours. Bellamy is sweeping and Murphy is doing something to the wall with a cloth that Bellamy is not going to question. It’s probably some form of cleaning. Or he’s rubbing water on the metal so it will rust, which does seem like a very Murphy thing to do. Still, he’s been quiet for about twenty minutes, which Bellamy interprets as a blessing.

“So I hear Octavia’s a pretty good kisser,” Murphy says after he’s lulled Bellamy into an evidentially false sense of security. 

Bellamy’s hand tightens on the broom handle. He isn’t facing him, but he can hear the sneer on Murphy’s face.

“I’m just wondering is, all,” Murphy says, even smarmier than before. “You taught her everything else, and she didn’t even meet anyone else for her whole life, so—”

Bellamy shoves Murphy against the wall, hard, forearm pressed violently against Murphy’s throat, pinning him there. Murphy’s eyes bulge, throat working desperately against Bellamy’s arm as he struggles.

Bellamy is filled with pointless rage, both at the insinuation and that he let Murphy get to him. He pushes harder, hard until Murphy’s throat can’t move against his arm anymore, until he has no air, and he can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears much louder than it should. He feels good. He feels alive.

Bellamy is pressed tight up against him, the whole of his body forcing Murphy to the wall, and so he feels when Murphy gets suddenly hard as a rock against his thigh. Which, if nothing else, is unexpected.

Bellamy drops his arm from Murphy’s neck and steps back. Shocked, his brain tells him, then corrects it to baffled. Murphy stands tight against the wall like he is still being held there, panting, his eyes still wide and wet. He throws himself at Bellamy, who reaches out to defend himself, but then Murphy’s hands are on his cheeks and his lips are pressed against Bellamy’s.

Which is, also, unexpected.

He kisses sloppy wet and bites down viciously on Bellamy’s lip until it begins to bleed. Bellamy lets him, unsure who crossed the line first. Murphy’s mouth is hot and his teeth are sharp, but his hands on Bellamy’s face are tentative and soft.

Bellamy sighs, allowing Murphy further violence with his mouth, but then Murphy jumps back and raises a hand to cover his mouth. He is still heaving breaths, but he looks more terrified now than hurt. His eyes dart towards the door. Bellamy realizes what he’s planning right before he dashes, throwing himself past Bellamy and out the door.

There is blood on Bellamy’s lips. He licks it off. He’s not sure what was more surprising, that he had let Murphy get to him, or that Murphy had kissed him (or that maybe they had both enjoyed it).

He finds his broom, picks it up absently. He begins to sweep again, and slowly comes to the realization that he wants to do that again. A lot. He swallows hard and tries to control the impulse to run off and find Murphy and wrap his hands around Murphy’s neck.

He decides to go see Clarke.

She is in the middle of a heated conversation with Abby, but disengages when she sees him.

“Hey, what’s up?” she says, with barely veiled irritation at her mother still sparking.

“Can I talk to you?” Bellamy glances up nervously, and takes his hands out of his pockets. He doesn’t remember putting them in his pockets to begin with. He pauses, then puts them back in his pockets.

Clarke clearly notices, her eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, what’s going on?”

Bellamy looks at Abby, who is standing only a few feet away from them. “In private?”

She drags him back to her tent with one last scathing glare at her mother. She closes the flap behind them, looking at him expectantly. 

“Can you show me how to choke someone?” he asks and then winces. Clarke raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t walk away, so Bellamy tries really hard to not make himself look creepy in front of the woman who is arguably his best friend. “Like if we’re, I don’t know, spying, and I want to knock someone out without killing them?”

Clarke smiles sheepishly, a look he knows. She is flattered and worries that her knowledge won’t be enough. “I’m not an expert, or anything, but I’ve seen a lot of accidents and read some medical books.”

He smiles and hopes it comes across encouragingly.

Clarke nods again. “Okay. Choking from behind with the bend in your arm at the throat is least likely to hurt the trachea, but I assume you’re thinking face to face?” She doesn’t wait for him to reply. “If you’re doing it with your hands, put your hand right under the jaw and above the Adam’s apple. Don’t press too hard, and use the space between your thumb and fingers to press. If you’re just trying to create that effect, you can press on the diaphragm, which will lessen their air intake.” She presses against her own diaphragm to show where it is.

Bellamy nods, trying to take all of that in. “Okay. Okay, thank you.” He decides to leave before he says anything suspicious.

“And Bellamy,” Clarke calls, turning him around. “Talk to him first, please. Consent is important and—don’t hurt him.” She is kind enough not to say, “again,” but Bellamy hears it anyway.

“I—yeah, I…” Bellamy glances between her and the door and then flees. He thinks he might actually have preferred to be tortured by Grounders than to discuss his love life with Clarke, hypothetical or no.

He goes to bed early, and as he lies in bed he tells himself, no more bad dreams, no more bad dreams. His brain does not get the memo. He’s on the ground, and earth is soft beneath his shoes. There is no crate, but he knows it is missing. His hands are around Murphy’s neck this time, and he’s squeezing.

Murphy says, “Bellamy, don’t do this. Don’t…” but he doesn’t want to stop. His leg slides between Murphy’s and Murphy is hard as a rock. There are red marks forming around his neck and his skin is cut in ribbons, like it was when they found him after the grounders.

He presses harder and Murphy’s eye bulge slightly. He is gasping, quaking with want of air and—and—and—

Bellamy wakes up shaken and shaking, nauseous and diamond-hard. His palms are sweaty and he doesn’t know if it’s from fear or arousal. 

Okay, he decides. He needs to end this.

He marches into the Ark wreckage, armed with knowledge and a dick that was quickly turning into a nervous half-chub. He will find Murphy, and then he will make his mouth form words that aren’t “chokey-sex.”

It shouldn’t be too hard to find Murphy, he reasons, because they’re supposed to be cleaning together, and the remains of the Ark are big, but they’re not that big. He steps into the hulking metal framework and expects to find Murphy almost instantaneously.

Instead, he comes across hall after hall of shinning metal—it must have taken Murphy all night—and no sign of the delinquent. Once or twice, as he sweeps idly and looks around constantly for Murphy, he hears irritating humming, but it’s always gone before he gets to it.

He spends the whole day aching in his jeans, hoping to run into Murphy, his luck has never been all that good. He avoids Octavia’s questioning looks all through dinner and decides to retire to his tent for some quality hand time.

He opens the flap to his tent, and Murphy is standing there, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Clarke,” he says, after a long pause. “Said you needed to see me. Said it was urgent.”

Bellamy has never felt more sure of how much he loves Clarke and how much he fucking hates her. He’s been struggling with an erection all day, so it’s no surprise it makes another appearance now, when he is face to face with Murphy.

“Well?” Murphy says, after really a long enough time that Bellamy should have gotten his words together.

“I’ve been having dreams about you,” he says, because Bellamy is the king of chill.

Murphy’s nostrils flair and he swallows hard, and Bellamy’s eyes are glued to his Adam’s apple and the sound of his inhalation. His fingers twitch in want and aborted movement. “What kind of dreams?”

Bellamy takes a predatory step forward, and Murphy doesn’t move, pinned by his gaze. “I felt it, you know. The other day. I felt you hard as a rock against my thigh with my arm across your throat.”

Murphy swallows hard again and Bellamy tracks the motion. God, it’s sick, he’s sick. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” Murphy takes a moment to gather himself then sneers, face twisted with anger. “I don’t need to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything.”

Bellamy can’t think of anything to say to that. Murphy is right, he doesn’t owe Bellamy anything. If anything, Bellamy owes Murphy. An explanation, an apology, something, anything. “I have dreams about hanging you,” he says. “Sometimes they aren’t nightmares.”

Murphy manages to look intrigued and disgusted all at once which makes Bellamy want to blush—embarrassed and angry and upsettingly turned on. “You’re a piece of work,” he spits, and storms past Bellamy, elbowing him savagely.

Bellamy grabs his elbow, spins Murphy back towards him, gripping his arm tightly.

“Let me fucking go,” Murphy says, and there’s anger and panic and maybe Bellamy really had been reading too much into this and then Murphy lurches forward and attacks his mouth. They bang teeth, but instead of pulling away, Murphy grips at his shirt and his skin, holding so tightly it will bruise and panting his anger into Bellamy’s mouth. 

Bellamy kisses back with the full force of his arousal and discomfort and barely restrains himself from putting a hand to Murphy’s neck, by trying to pull off Murphy’s shirt instead.

He gets his hand on warm—and slightly raised?—skin and it’s everything he’s felt in his dream but so warm and real and he moans, embarrassingly, and cups the small of Murphy’s back in his hand.

He honestly isn’t expecting the punch to the face, but he’s not sure expectation would have softened the blow. Murphy is backing away from him, fists still clenched and a hollowed out expression on his face.

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” he says, and flees, leaving Bellamy with an ache on his cheek and in his chest.

He lies down on his blanket because summer is coming and the air is warm and he tells himself, no more dreams of any kind. He can’t bear it, he won’t abide it. He shuts his eyes and waits for the morning.

He is floating, the kind of floating that he always assumed one could do in space, but despite having lived the vast majority of his years in a void, he had never experienced. He is floating but there is a weight in his feet and he is falling down down down and Murphy grabs his hand and says, “Don't worry, Bellamy. I won't drop you.”

He pulls Bellamy on top of him, weightless. They roll around in stardust and it occurs to Bellamy that they shouldn’t be able to breathe. Murphy writhes underneath him, breathless and ecstatically orgasmic and Bellamy, straddling him, rides the waves of his passion. There is a lull, a moment of serene contentment, and Bellamy is filled with a tingle of pleasure.

He looks down, forward, at Murphy and into space, and then Murphy is clutching at his throat, grey faced and cold. Bellamy is frozen still and Murphy is twitching, gasping and scratching frantically at the pale column of his throat. His eyes are wide and he is almost a corpse—because Bellamy knows what that looks like now, has seen so many people die—and he can’t move and he’s crying, he’s sure and he wakes up covered in sweat and limbs tingling.

He lies in bed, panting, and pretends that the tears in his eyes are just sweat. He decides, fuck Kane, fuck his friends, fuck his responsibilities, he is taking a sick day and staying in his tent until he becomes one with the Earth and ceases to exist. It sounds like a good life plan.

Octavia brings him lunch, hands him a bowl of stew, and stands before him stewing in her disapproval. “You’re pathetic,” she says, because she loves him.

“I’m sick,” he replies, lying. 

She scoffs and squats in front of him. “Sick in the head, more like.” But she combs his hair out of his face and gives him a reassuring smile. “Nice bruise you got there,” she says, and runs her fingers across his purple cheek.

He had honestly forgotten about the punch to the face he had received the night before. “Thanks, I made it myself.”

Octavia frowns at him. She tilts her head and looks at him critically in the way she’s begun to now—now that she knows more about people, about the world. He wonders what she sees. She says, “Just because you don’t want to hurt him, doesn’t mean you should let him hurt you, either.”

“Don’t.” He pulls his head away from her hand, and ignores the hurt expression on her face. “You don’t understand, Octavia.”

“Then make me,” she shouts, and she’s so alive and vicious and Bellamy just wants to hold her.

“Your boyfriend kept you chained up in a cave.” Bellamy is pretty sure that fact will give him the upper hand for the rest of their lives.

“For like a day,” she says, dismissively. “Listen, I’m not saying don’t do whatever gross things you want to do with each other, but don’t do them to each other, you know? Don’t lash out and don’t let him, because you’re both idiots and you’ll regret it. You get me?”

He already does. Bellamy regrets yesterday and the day before and he regrets hanging Murphy and banishing him, and he regrets letting Murphy run off after he tried to hang Bellamy and he regrets that he doesn’t know how to use his words sometimes, and still prefers to talk with his fists.

“Yeah, I got you.”

She takes the bowl back from him and lets him slump back onto the ground, because she’s a good sister, and she loves him. “Get some rest,” she says. “Do some thinking. Don’t be an idiot.”

He lies back and stares at the roof of his tent, which wasn’t really a roof at all, and tries to muster some initiative to do something. He doesn’t really want to be alone with his thoughts, but he doesn’t really want to be with anyone else, either.

He is spared the decision, because a few hours after Octavia leaves, Murphy comes barreling through the opening of his tent. “Octavia said you were hurt,” he growls, but his face looks concerned.

“No...?” Bellamy hazards, and doesn’t move.

Murphy glares. “That little bi—” He glances at Bellamy and has just enough self-preservation instincts to stop himself. “So you’re fucking fine and I’m here like a fucking moron and—” he stops, staring at Bellamy’s face, and Bellamy is suddenly very worried there is stew on his face and he is going to die of embarrassment. “Fuck, did I do that?”

Bellamy comes to the realization he means the bruise with the all the quickness of leisurely stroll. “Oh. Yeah, I mean, well…”

Murphy throws himself onto his knees next to Bellamy. He scoots towards him cautiously, like Bellamy might bite him, which, to be fair, it was only a few days ago he put his arm to Murphy’s throat.

And look where that got him.

Murphy swallows hard and leans over Bellamy. His face shifts into something full of self-loathing and want. “Fuck!” He squeezes his eyes shut and grabs at his hair, pulling fistfuls of it, and rocking. “Fuck, I’m so fucked up, I’m so fucking fucked, I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick…”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Bellamy pulls himself up, resting his hands on Murphy’s shoulders and pulling Murphy into his chest. Murphy falls in, limp but shaking, and let’s Bellamy envelope him. “I need a little help,” he tells Murphy. “I need some context. Why are you sick?”

Murphy lifts his head, and their eyes meet, and Bellamy is sure he’s supposed to be getting some sort of information from this, but he can’t parse it. Murphy releases the death grip on his hair and places his hands on Bellamy’s cheeks. He kisses Bellamy again, hard and fierce. “I’m twisted,” he says against Bellamy’s mouth, and pulls away. “I have these dreams, and I want it, I do, and I didn’t before, I swear. I didn’t enjoy it, and I hated it—I wanted you to know what I feel, I wanted you to hurt, but it felt wrong and I just kept seeing your hands, could feel them around my throat and I want it, it’s sick—it’s so sick, and I want it in your hands, my fucking life, I’m sorry, I swear.”

Bellamy takes a deep breath. “Okay.” It feels like not enough, and Murphy pulls always, is looking at him with confused shock.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy nods emphatically. “Very much yeah.” 

Murphy deflates. “Just like that? You just wanna—”

“Have chokey-sex with you, yeah.” Bellamy places his hand on Murphy’s shoulder, rests his thumb casually on his throat. “Assuming you want to?”

Murphy leans into the pressure, but his face is unsure. “Why? You don’t even like me.”

Bellamy’s feelings on Murphy are definitely mixed, but based on how often Murphy has been in his thoughts, and the fact that the idea of Murphy naked make his heart pound a little faster, he’s willing to say mixed-leaning-heavily-towards-positive. “I do,” he says, then clarifies, “like you.”

“Oh.” Murphy glances backwards at the entrance to the tent and Bellamy thinks there is a fair chance he will bolt.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and when Murphy nods, tentatively, he presses their lips together with much more poise and self-assurance than he thought he would have been able to muster. His hand is still resting on Murphy’s shoulder. He shifts it towards Murphy’s throat and Murphy jerks back.

“You’ll stop? If I ask you to? You will?” Murphy is seated, leaning back on his arms, vulnerable and young and Bellamy wants to wrap his hands around his neck.

Bellamy nods. “Yeah. You say stop and it’s done, okay?” He approaches slowly, straddles one of Murphy’s legs as Murphy eases himself down. Bellamy’s leg is right up against Murphy’s crotch, and he can feel Murphy beginning to get hard. He pushes against it, supplying pressure and friction.

Bellamy runs his fingers down Murphy’s cheek gently, loves how Murphy’s eyelids flutter shut and presses a chaste kiss to his lips as he eases his hand onto Murphy’s throat. He rests his palm on Murphy’s throat, feels him swallow against it, before dragging his hand upward, leaning into Murphy. Murphy’s hands grip the grass on the ground in fistfuls, grounds himself.

His hand fits perfectly onto the space above Murphy’s Adam’s apple, like it was formed for his hand and he pushes, soft at first, and then harder when Murphy emits a pleased sounding gasp.

He kisses him, licks the inside swell of Murphy’s lips, and rocks his leg onto Murphy’s cock, erect and trapped in his pants, and Bellamy is not sure he has ever been this hard in his life. He knows, even as Murphy kisses back, that he is meant to close his eyes, but he can’t. Murphy’s face is beginning to color pink and his eyes dilate like he is staring into the sun. He whimpers and Bellamy can’t help but reach between them and unbutton his pants to give himself a good squeeze. That noise is going to haunt his dreams.

“John,” he says, and is surprised at how gravely his voice sounds. “You gonna rub yourself up against my leg, or am I expected to do all the work?”

Murphy surges upward, choking himself on Bellamy’s hand and thrusting erratically against Bellamy’s thigh. He can breathe, of course, because Bellamy might find the idea of this very hot in theory (and as it happens, practice), but he also thinks that Sex Acts That Could Kill You are the kind of things that maybe need to be discussed in more specificity than they had managed.

He presses down a little harder, though, lets Murphy control much of the force with the way he jackknives up with every thrust. Bellamy palms himself in his pants, watching, raptly, as Murphy shudders and shakes, gasping and writhing, ruddy cheeked and flushed and sweating.

“Tighter,” he grunts, and Bellamy obliges, pressing down harder. He can hear the whisper of air through Murphy’s compressed windpipe. Murphy bucks, eyes fluttering shut as he struggles to pant.

Bellamy’s close, cock wet and aching, and then Murphy bends to meet his thigh pressing hard against it as he cums in his jeans. He keeps his hand tight on Murphy’s throat, and Murphy’s eyes open lazily. He blinks slowly and smiles serene despite the fact he is still struggling for breath and Bellamy can’t help but cum. 

He pulls his hand back like it is burnt, waits to see if Murphy is going to punch him again, or run.

Murphy releases his fistfuls of grass and reaches up to prod at his throat gingerly. “Got any good bruises?” he rasps.

Bellamy wipes his hands off, embarrassed, on the grass. “You might.”

Murphy nods. “Cool.” He sniffs pointedly. “So, what now?”

Bellamy frowns. “We could do that again. Sometime. We could cuddle?”

Murphy scoffs. “Fuck, Blake, be gayer.”

Bellamy looks pointedly at Murphy’s stained jeans and raises an eyebrow.

Murphy scowls. “We could do that again some time.” He fixes his gaze on anything but Bellamy. “We could cuddle. If you needed to.”

“You want to lose some layers?” he suggests, with a glance at the jeans, and the sweaty top.

Murphy grimaces. “Yeah, I just—just don’t look, I’m not…” he takes off his shirt in a single movement, and sits there frowning at the ground. 

It takes Bellamy a moment to get it, but then he sees them. His chest, the part of his back that Bellamy can see, is packed with scars. Thick, ropey scar tissue, in misshapen patterns and faced with the thought of what must have caused that damage, Bellamy balks. Murphy moves to put his shirt back on. 

“No, no, c’mere,” Bellamy insists, and pulls Murphy towards him, who lets himself be pulled. “I like you. I like you however you come,” he says, and is surprised to find it’s true.

“I like you too, I guess,” Murphy says.

Bellamy takes that as permission and curls himself around Murphy, using the opportunity to kiss Murphy again, slowly. Murphy lets him, or, he hopes, wants to do this, too. He lies there, and thinks about next time. 

“You could go harder,” Murphy says softly, speaking into his collarbone. “Next time.” 

They fall asleep that way.

Bellamy dreams.

They are underwater and he is flying or floating or swimming. The water is clear blue and the sky is orange and he is a bright sun and Murphy is a luminescent moon. Murphy is breathing out bubbles. They are walking, maybe, soaring, weightless, tumbling and closer and closer. “I won’t drop you,” he says, and Bellamy knows it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> hello my name is gabriel racetrackthehiggins and i also write porn sometimes


End file.
